Глеб Бобров - The Torn Souls - An Anthology of Prose About the Soviet War in Afghanistan

Days passed. Although the flight engineer did not notice any signs of her acknowledgement about his picture, or in the behavior of his model, he was not worried. He was waiting as an experienced hunter.

But fate delivered a curve that the first lieutenant F. did not expect.

One afternoon, during the siesta, major Bozhko walked in into the room of the flight engineer F.

— Listen, — he said, stopping in front of the poster, — in the evening we will be visited by my pals from Bagram; one of them is a from my commander’s school, but he graduated one year after me. They are going to spend a night here. We will meet, chat, and so on… I want this picture to be hanging in my room just for a day. Anyway, she is the face, chest, abdomen and knees of our squadron, so we should show it to them!

— Just do not spill the vodka on it — the flight engineer F. said, taking the poster off.

— Do not be silly! — Bozhko answered, holding the shaky bedside table. — We have got too little vodka for wasting it on the walls.

In the evening, the flight engineer F., heard from Bozhko’s room laughter, and a muffled guitar song, which only one line — “Look at the radiometer, asshole!” — was clear.

The next day the flight engineer flew away early and came back late. Before his dinner, he went to collect his creation. However, the poster had disappeared from the commander’s room.

— And where is the picture? — turning his head, the flight engineer asked.

— You see, my dear, — the major, confusedly scratched his head — our girl flew away…

— What do you mean? Where did she fly and how?

— Well, how do people usually fly away? In the helicopter, of course, to Bagram. They saw the picture and began begging for it! Of course, I refused, as it was our squadron’s face! Then these bastards decided to get me drunk, and you know how mellow I am when I am drunk. To be honest, I do not even remember how I gave it to them…But now she will represent us in another country!

Clenching his teeth, the flight engineer turned and left without saying a single word.

— You should not worry like that! — Major shouted at his back. — You can draw a hundreds of such pictures!

— I am not upset — the flight engineer said, closing the door. — I just do not understand one thing…

Then for a long time he was swearing.

Outside, on the bench near the door, he had his cigarette, inhaling deeply and often, then he got up and walked slowly toward the dining hall. But after few steps, he stopped and turned back. Entering his room, he opened the three-legged bedside table and took out a treasure that he had brought yesterday from the south-eastern mountains.

Earlier, not far from Kandahar, in the village that was hiding between the shades of pomegranate groves, the flight engineer stopped at a small roadside shop.

The tanned, thin old man who looked like a thousand years older than a genie from a famous children story, raised his watery eyes. Carrying a gun over his shoulder, he took a large pomegranate and handed it to the flight engineer.

This pomegranate was of a size of a small watermelon — the flight engineer had not seen fruit of this size at the Caucasian markets neither at the markets of Central Asia, with which he was familiar from his childhood.

But for the artist, this old man held in his hand (his palm was like stained lacquered wood) not a fruit — it was a round vessel, which once had been decorated with morocco, dyed with cochineal, and ironed to a shiny gloss. The vessel has lost its color after many centuries. But the shabby antiquity of its leather ensured that up to the neck of the vessel — pomegranate, its seeds were packed inside like large faceted rubies.

And the flight engineer bought from the old genie this leather vessel, with the blood of Dionysus, paying only five or ten Afghani. Then he was flying over mountains, he thought that soon he would draw her real portrait, with this unique pomegranate.

After getting the fruit from the shop, he unbuttoned the jacket of his jumpsuit, and placed the pomegranate inside his jacket right near his heart; put his hand on it, and buttoned his jacket. He went to the dining room, carrying the pomegranate, near his bare stomach, like mine, and muttered:

— What a miracle it is? and for whom this miracle is?… Of course, it is for you!… Do you want me to draw you?…

The dining room was almost empty, only a couple of fighter-bombers had been finishing their tea. Two waitresses were cleaning the tables. Bending down, caved in and stretched like a cat, she was wiping a long table, touching the table with her breasts. She turned her head, blew her hair off her face and said amiably, without changing her position:

— Sit down at a clear table, and I will get your order…

And then she has gone. He sat down at a clear table and waited, holding a pomegranate in his lap. His heart was beating stronger.

P.S.

There are some photos that have been saved, but certainly they do not reflect the whole picture: http://kuch.ru/pictures/frolov/22.jpg

At Customs, vigilant customs officers tore off the upper part of the picture containing secret squadron numbers. The flight engineer has managed to hide his picture in a jar of Indian tea.

Senior lieutenants were preparing for their inevitable demobilization. For this event they decided to brew home-made vodka in a welded 40 litre tank (the subject of an open envy from others!), in which the fermentation process was excellent. This technology has been tested many times — water, a few cans of cherry jam, one spoon of yeast, a rubber hose, and discharge gases in a jar with water. The result was magnificent — home-made vodka, which will knock you down after a few pints.

The 3rd of July — the day of their discharge from the army-was approaching fast. And the home-made vodka was almost ready, quietly emitting gases and spreading a smell of sour cherries around the room. And something unexpected did happen: it was an inspection of each room searching for alcohol and medicines, because even to keep headache painkillers in a bedside table was somehow punishable.

… So, the inspectors were walking in a corridor.

— In which corridor are they walking? — Senior Lieutenant Losenkov frantically asked.

-In our corridor! — Senior Lieutenant F. hissed, closing the door. — Act according to the instructions…

They rushed to the window, carefully opened the wooden shutters, pulled out the tank with home-made vodka under the table, placed it on the window sill, jumped into the street, removed the tank, put it under the window, climbed back into the room and closed the shutters.

Chief of Staff, Political Officer and a doctor knocked at the door and then entered the room.

— Here, I guess, we can definitely find something! — the Political Officer sniffed the air. — It stinks here!

— A jam soured — the board technician F. explained — In this heat even the brain tends to sour. By the way, we have been demanding the replacement of an air-conditioner for a long time. Doctor, how can you let us fly knowing that we don’t have proper conditions for a good rest — check yourself what temperature it is in this room…

— Okay, okay, — the Chief of Staff winced, — we do not need to speculate on the temporal difficulties. Tell me instead, where is your home-made alcohol?

— You can search, — with this suggestion the senior lieutenant F. sat on the bed.

The thorough search has been conducted with peeping under the beds and probing the pillows, but all of these gave a zero result. The superiors went away with nothing but promised to confiscate all illegal alcohol next time if it will be found. As soon as their steps in the hallway were no longer heard, the senior lieutenants F. rushed to the window. He opened the shutters and looked outside…The tank with the home-made vodka was not there.